


the first day of the rest

by starmist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Related, F/M, Gen, Grounder!Bellarke, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starmist/pseuds/starmist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klark is ten years old when they meet for the first time. She has pestered her father for weeks to bring her with him to the trade talks in Polis. They happen every year in spring time, just after the flowers win their battle against the frost to bloom again for another year. When the rivers being to move again, so do their people.<br/>--<br/>A Grounder!Bellarke au in which I try to write the growing-up-together/friends-to-lovers trope without it being angsty af.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the first day of the rest

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bunch of WIPs at the moment and I keep getting distracted by new projects and grad school but I just had to write this. This fic is written mostly to satisfy the need of my #skypekru which is, and I quote: "“JUST GIVE THEM BEING BEST GROUNDER FRIENDS AND FALLING IN LOVE”. So yes, have this grounder!Bellarke au, in which they are referred to be their [grounder names](http://dedalvs.tumblr.com/post/106810118384/so-i-saw-on-the-wiki-page-for-trigedasleng-ai) the whole time. There is a bit of trigedasleng scattered through this and will leave translations in the note below accordingly. Enjoy:

Klark is ten years old when they meet for the first time.

She has pestered her father for weeks to bring her with him to the trade talks in Polis. They happen every year in spring time, just after the flowers win their battle against the frost to bloom again for another year. When the rivers being to move again, so do their people.

Klark and her best friend, Wells, find a crawl space outside their village meeting hall and spend long, languid evenings listening to the voices of the council drift out to their hiding spot. When Klark hears her father’s voice, she presses a finger to her lips to shush Wells and presses her ear insistently against the wall on her left, straining to hear the conversation. It is muffled and hard to make out, but it sounds important.

A rider comes to their camp with news of the spring meeting barely days later, the moment she sees him it falls in to place. Klark practically falls over herself as she scrambles across the grass as fast as her legs can carry her to her father’s workshop to beg him to let her attend. Her mother will likely not attend the meeting herself, but her father will in her stead. He sighs and nods his head after just two days of pleading. She shrieks and hugs him tight, arms slung round his neck and nose pressed in to his shoulder.

They leave just before dawn less than a week later, a party of six plus two horses and a cart. The journey to the capital takes just over two days from their camp, set at the fastest pace the horses can pull their laden cart. Klark walks right past the edge of their camp, places one determined foot in front of the other and tips herself over the edge into a world entirely unknown to her. She is blissfully unaware that this single act will carve a path for the rest of her life.

As they walk, Klark jumps back and forth between different members of the party to ask them questions. Every step forward is the farthest she’s ever been from their village, and she can’t help but feel the thrum of excitement in her belly knowing something is waiting for her on the other end of this journey. She rides in the cart when she gets tired and falls asleep against a sack of grain as the sky gets dark and the air becomes crisper.

In the morning she is more jolted awake by a bump in the path than she is by the sun. She blinks her eyes, blearily peering out from the cart to see the sun cresting over the edge of the horizon, warming the sky up with hues of pink and gold. It is louder too, amiable conversation drifting around her and the steady roll of more than one heavy cart on the muddy ground. As she pokes her head up from when she fell asleep she sees that their party has grown larger. There are at least three other groups from other villages walking together now on the final stretch to their capitol. Their surroundings have changed too; the forest is sparser here, thickets of grass dotted with wildflowers on either side of them, the mountain that marks her home barely visible beyond the wisps of cloud in the sky in the distance, and the road ahead is clearly well traveled from the tracks of wheels in the mud and the occasional trader standing by the roadside with arms of food, water and the occasional trinket.

Her father buys her an apple and she gets him to test her on the dialects of the other clans and laughs at him when he can’t remember the word for ‘apple’ in English. She started to learn the language as a child through pure accident, mixing up her Trigedasleng and English words as if they were one because her parents spoke both so frequently. English is harsher in her mouth than her own tongue, but she can see the flow of both languages together, identifying the old roots of the new words. Most of the people at the delegations will speak the old English, and she hums with anticipation at the opportunity to try out what she has learned.

“Maybe I’ll bring you with me to the trade meetings, Klark. You can help me avoid awkward dinner conversation” her father says in their own dialect, ruffling her braided hair slightly. Her face feels like it’s going to break with the size and sheer force of her smile, grinning around her mouthful of tangy apple flesh.

This will be her first time in Polis. Wells has visited the capital before with his father. It had been hard not to be jealous when he returned to their village with sparkling stories of tall houses wrapped around the trees, members of all different clans spilling out on to the street in brightly coloured garb and beads around the necks. The air electrified with laughter and excitement and music floating around the huge encampment surrounding Polis. She didn’t speak to him for a week after his first visit, jealousy a cold pit in her stomach she still doesn’t know quite how to deal with. Running away from it seemed the better option at the time. But after his second visit, he'd returned with a set of charcoals in hand. She found it much harder to be mad at him as he shoved them in her direction with a sheepish smile on his face.

The morning bleeds into afternoon, the sun climbing to hand high above them, beating down on the backs of their necks. Klark shucks her fur-lined coat and breaths in a lungful of the spring air. Someone lets out a shout as Polis comes in to view far in the distance, a small cheer rising from the group, happy to have an end in sight. Some of their number have troubled much longer than two days and are eager to sleep and sooth their aching muscles with hot water.

Their group is met by a scout at the edge of the city. He grasps hands with her father, pulling him in for an embrace. Klark recognises him from visits to their village in the past – they must be old friends. Markus leads them to the encampment spilling out from the permanent edges of the city, temporary tarpaulin tents and bed rolls scattered about the grass, crowded around the ashes of last night’s campfires.

“Jakob, you and your girl can stay with me, if you would like,” Markus offers. Klark is ready to protest as her father waves a placating hand at her.

“I will stay with my party, I think. Klark wants the authentic Polis experience, after all.”

The both look at her then and she blushes at the attention. Markus laughs and offers his hand out for her father to shake before he turns to leave. It is true, of course. But her father is also not one to take privileges not offered to others. He is a man of the people, and values their respect more than a comfortable bed for a few nights.

A chill begins to bite at the camp, reminding them they are but a few weeks the other side of winter. Klark goes back to the cart to retrieve her coat and returns to a bowl of steaming soup and a hunk of crusty bread in her father’s hands as some of their party erect three small tents for them to bed down in.

“Eat, Klark. We have a long day tomorrow. You should sleep soon.”

Once her bowl is empty she sits by the fire, watching the flames dance in the darkness until her eyelids begin to droop. She feels her father lift her up and move her from the fireside into their tent, the crackle of the fire and murmur of the conversations deadened slightly by the tarpaulin. A real bed roll in a tent is a vast improvement on the moving cart from the night before, so she sinks in to a heavy sleep almost immediately. Her consciousness slipping away as she drifts in to dreams of apples and cities in the trees.

Their party wakes just after dawn, sun streaming through the seams in their tents as an angry horn is blown in the distance. Heda wishes to begin the talks, the horn is their summons.

“Are you ready for you first day in the capitol, Klark?” her father asks.

“Yes. I’ve been ready my whole life, Nontu!” she laughs, rolling her eyes. Honestly. She slips her small hand into his large calloused one. He squeezes her hand slightly as they pass the check point into the city.

Between the trees, remnants of the old world poke through, relics of a time long gone. Dull, square buildings dot the edges of the capitol. Some are as small as her cabin back home, yet others climb in to the sky beyond the reach of the tallest trees. She has seen pictures of buildings like this from before. Before the Cataclysm. But she didn’t think there were any left.

The old world dwellings are not what excites her most, though. Some of the trees have winding staircases wrapped around them, small wooden rooms built up from their roots, extending up their trunks and across their branches. There are even small bridges with rope railings between different the dwellings, connecting the trees in a spidery network of wood and rope in the canopy above. It’s so much better than Wells had described it. He’s tried to draw it for her but had given up quickly after his second attempt had resulted in a burst of laughter from her.

“Am I coming in to the talks with you?” Klark asks tentatively. His comment the previous day lingering in her mind. She wants to see everything her father does, to share this place with him in every way she can.

“No, gada. Not today.”

She tries not to let how crestfallen she feels eek over to her face but utterly fails. Her father bends down to crouch so they are at eye level, and reaches a hand out to stroke her cheek.

“You will get bored with the talks today, you’ll have more fun out here. You might make a new  _lukot_.”

Her father is always encouraging her to talk to more people in the village, make more friends. Even at ten, Klark knows he worries about her, but she is just fine with Wells and her charcoals He stand up and speaks to Jakson, tells him he will be back soon, before taking her hand and leading them away from the group. They weave between the crowds of people, clan members from several of the larger nations decked out in their warrior garb. Meetings are not just a place to forge peace and trade agreements, but somewhere to boast of your prosperity and power too.

Her father stops in front of a large wooden cabin. It’s not one of the dwellings in the canopy of the trees, but is built in to the side of a huge tree, planks of wood fitted around the knots of its roots. There is a tiny wisp of white smoke rising from its chimney (to the side, to avoid setting the whole tree alight, of course). Her father looks down to smile at her pulls her along to the door. He pushes aside the curtain covering the entrance and drops her hand. The dwelling looks to be something of a meeting place, with chairs and tables scattered about.

Klark notes that most of the occupants of the building are children just like her and she feels her anger rising. She does not want to spend the day being told what to do by someone she does not know when she is in the capitol for the first time.

A petite woman approaches them, and exchanges a few words with her father in Trigedasleng before he turns to leave.

“Be good, Klark.”

“I always am, Nontu.”

And then he’s gone.

The morning passes with little activity. She braids some of the younger girl’s hair after they approach her asking about her own – it’s not a common style in Polis, apparently. She eyes a girl sitting in the corner by herself watching them out of the corner of her eye. None of the girls chattering around her have made any effort to speak to the girl or include her in their braiding session.

Once they’ve had her fill she sits on a table and stares out the window, watching the muddle of clansmen walking up and down the path. This is not how her first day in Polis was supposed to be. There’s a movement out the corner of her eye and she turns her head to see the girl who had been sitting by herself earlier scooting along the table until the arms are bumping. She brushes a strand of dark hair back from her face to behind her ear and turns her face to beam at Klark.

“This place is dull, isn’t it?” she asks. Klark laughs and turns to face the girl properly.

“Yes. I want to explore the city, not sit here all day.”

It’s the other girl’s turn to laugh now. She jumps up and grabs Klark’s wrist, pulling her off the table with a jolt and towards the back of the room. She turns her head, casting a glance to the tired-looking woman who has greeted her father earlier that day. She’s occupied with some sort of disagreement at the front of the meeting hall. The girl turns and pulls Klark out the side entrance of the hall and down the steps into the fresh air outside.

Once they have reached a safe distance from the building (safe enough not to be seen by one of the meeting hall’s inhabitants), she drops Klark’s hand and spins around.

“I’m Oktevia,” the girl says.

“Klark,” she replies.

“I like your braids.”

Klark eyes the girls hair quickly, a distinct lack of any coherent design in her hair. Oktevia must see the flick of her eyes and licks her lips before speaking again.

“We don’t wear braids where I come from.”

“Oh?”

“Naikru don’t do a lot of things you do.”

Klark doesn’t really know what to say to that. She’s heard of the Naikru before, of course. They are a group of wandering nomads who move up and down the coast, setting up temporary camps for a few months at a time before moving on to somewhere new.

There was a man in her own village two summers ago who had been caught stealing food from the council stores. His child was weak from a sweating fever – her mother had attended their cabin to tend to the boy. He had waited until dark and slipped in to the food store to take some nuts and meat to take back in hopes of helping his son regain strength. The fever was a brutal one. One of the warriors on patrol had seen him and hauled him, sobbing, in to the council hall. He was banished for his crimes, and forced to leave his family the next morning. Klark remembers hearing her mother mention the _Naikru_ to her father, telling him the man’s best chance for survival would be to head for their ranks before winter claimed the land.

For all of Klark’s silence, Oktevia does not seem phased by her lack of response.

“Follow me,” Oktevia instructs.

It doesn’t enter Klark’s head to turn back to the hall. She wants to be out here, so she follows the bouncing girl in front of her. The pair of them attract little attention as they weave through the streets. They have thinned out considerably since the dawn call in the morning, most of the warriors and diplomats attending trade meetings or alliance talks nearer the centre of the city.

They come to a clearing and Oktevia stands in front of a tree and peaks around its trunk to the field in front of them. Klark does the same with the tree to her left. The grass is littered with around a dozen or so boys, and they sit carving arrow- and axe-heads under the tutelage of a larger man dressed in a grey tunic with a knife strapped to his thigh. There is a large circle painted on to the side of a tree on the opposite side of the field. A few boys mill around it, taking turns with bows far too big for their frames to aim their newly cut arrows in its direction.

Klark follows Oktevia’s eyes as they latch on to an older boy sitting on the grassy bank between the two groups, looking relatively disinterested in the whole affair. His clothes are a mismatch of different clans, a grey fur hood around his shoulders and deep green trousers covered in small patches.There is an abandoned axe at his feet and a small bound book in his hands. Oktevia pulls back and cups her hands to her mouth and blows air through a gap in her fingers. She moves her hands and the sound comes out startlingly similar to the call of a raven. There of plenty of ravens in her village.

The sound is barely past her lips when the boy looks up from his book, eyes quickly searching the treeline for the source of the noise. Nobody else moves. His eyes move toward their hiding place and Oktevia lifts a hand to wave in greeting and he grins in recognition.

The boy turns his head lazily to eye the instructor by the arrow target before folding his book and standing up to walk over to the tree line. His limbs moving in slight discontinuity with each other as he jogs the last few metres to avoid his disappearance from the clearing being witnessed.

“Do I want to know how you managed to escape?”

He is a good head taller than both of them, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead. His smile falters for a moment when he gets close enough to notice Klark standing on Oktevia’s left, and turns an inquisitive look at her. She waves a dismissive hand at him before explaining: “This is my new _lukot_ , Klark. She is Trigedakru."

Klark beams of the use of _lukot._ She files it away to tell her father later. The boy in front of them gives her a scrutinising glance up and down, but lets the weariness drop from his face. 

Oktevia then turns to meet Klark’s eyes and must see the questions in them too. She jerks her head towards the boy; “This is my brother, Belomi.”

**Author's Note:**

> Trigedasleng notes:  
> Nontu - father  
> Gada - girl  
> Lukot - friend
> 
> I'd really appreciate it if you left a comment or gave kudos if you enjoyed this first chapter, it's really helpful to gauge reader's reactions to help me in the direction of future chapters! (Also, preferably with something more than "please update" etcetera, as can be disheartening. Real comments are the best!) I originally planned on posting this as a one shot but couldn't wait, so now I /have/ to write and post the rest.


End file.
